Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Holly Polter
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Holly Polter
Summary: Pre-5th year, Harry is visited by a woman claiming to be his magical Aunt Holly, except that she can't cast spells... or keep her hands off of him... or his friends. Holly/multi, Harry/multi. Not just naughty- it's knotty.
Explanation of intent: A while back I created a Girl!Harry story called Holly Evans and the Spiral Path. It started as an attempt to turn all sorts of fanfiction tropes on their heads, take a few stabs at canon, and maybe explore some sex stuff while not degenerating into 'fucking for the fuck of it' porn-erotica. Before I got too far into it, I decided to take it seriously, and really explore how a hero can be corrupted by their choices, particularly when Dark Magic (TM) is involved. Despite its many flaws, I think it turned out great, but many readers have said that they found the story to be a harsh and brutal thing- a difficult read. "Where's the fun in that?" they'd ask.
Rather than go off explaining the merits of tragedy and catharsis, I figure it's about time to let Holly romp around and fuck for the sake of fucking. After all, she is my Ms. Hyde, my Id monster, my Tyler Durden. And what better place for Holly to satisfy her (or my) cravings than the canon world of Harry Potter? There will be drama, comedy, mystery, adventure, a bit of horror and angst, but overall this is just a smutfic. One that I'll probably take too seriously. Enjoy.
What You Need to Know: If you've never heard of Holly Evans, here's the short version: In another world, Lily's protection went further, merging Lily with her son Harry to make Holly, except that she forgot everything Lily knew and had to grow up in Harry's place. This was her first step on the road to becoming a Dark Lady in her own right. The second step was shattering the Philosopher's Stone. The third probably was falling in love with a quite heterosexual Hermione Granger. Somewhere around step 37, Holly Marked Nymphadora Tonks as her vassal, using a Spiral Mark derived from Riddle's Dark Mark. Between Tonks' shapeshifting and Holly's need for frequent orgasms to keep Riddle's splinter of soul in her head at bay, Holly became quite adventurous, sexually speaking.
Prologue: 'Well, shit,'thought Holly, 'I've been decapitated. Didn't see that com--.'
Chapter: Arrival
Awareness gathers like mist collecting in a valley. A vague presence coalesces into an identity, which desires form. The thumping pulse of continuity's audience listens and responds, as it is compelled to when it hears so lucid a request. A template is found, relevant to the voice and gratifying to the audience in echoing the themes that it remembers hearing in another thread of time-place-texture. And God mused, 'This ought to be fun...'
Holly awoke in darkness to the chirping of crickets and the hum of air conditioner compressors. The night air was hot and dense with humidity. She felt groggy, a bit soggy and if she wasn't mistaken there were lawn clippings sticking to her bare skin. She sat up and took stock, flicking her fingers out to dislodge some of the grass from her limbs.
Somehow I expected my postmortem destination to be more painful. And drier.
The flicker of streetlamps threw shadows into the garden where she sat. Holly looked around for a landmark, a sign or some other indicator of her location. For her, there were too many; the rusted tools tucked into a bucket behind the rubbish bins, the polished garden bench, the double locks on the shed, the plots of flowers and ornamental grasses arranged just so... she knew this garden as if she had tilled and planted it herself.
I'm back at Privet Drive. Perhaps this is Hell, after all.
With nothing better to guide her, Holly chose to enter the house- if this was a nightmare scenario, there'd be no point in trying a different house to look for clothes and a towel. If it wasn't, this was the best place to begin finding where things stood, and perhaps arm herself as well. No sense being stupid about it- 'in trouble' was for her a chronic condition.
The lock on the mudroom door yielded to a small burst of mechanism magic from a touch of her hand. Her fingertips lit up in the invoking, also sparking her curiosity. They looked and felt wrong, but she couldn't quite recall what the difference should be.
She stepped into the kitchen and turned on the light. Inspecting her body in the fluorescence, she also noted a lack of any scars or trophies on her flesh, and that she was seeing this with both eyes, equally myopic. Feeling around her face, she found the faint impression of the scar on her forehead, otherwise healed. Her hair had grown out past her shoulders. Pulling some into view, she saw that it was straight and raven black which felt normal, though she was also expecting it to be a dark red. She shook out the damp strands, combing away some blades of grass and then taking a few minutes to braid it out of her way. Out of an old habit, she collected every flake of grass that had fallen onto the linoleum and binned them.
With care to be quiet, she riffled through the kitchen drawers, retrieving an elastic to tie up her braid and a towel to dry off and wipe her body clean. She also selected a stiff paring knife to keep handy and then made her way forward into the hall.
The cupboard under the stairs was sealed with a padlock. Again, she encouraged the lock to remember being unhinged (perhaps a bit as she felt) and then pulled the door open. Stowed amidst the hoover and cleaning supplies was a Hogwart's-style trunk with the initials HJP above the latch, lettered in gold paint. This opened with just a twist of the paring knife and she peered inside, her hands trembling more than she expected as she lifted the lid.
She pulled out and donned a work robe, then rooted through the other trunk contents. The thing was a mess with broken quills, uncorked empty inkwells and various loose pages of homework mixed amongst the more pertinent materials-standard textbooks through year 4, a potions kit, size 2 cauldron and such. A glance at a page of homework showed the author as Harry Potter.
How does that work? If I'm dead, why would Harry be here separate from me? If I'm not dead... where the hell am I and why am I here? It all feels too real, like I'm visiting Denmark where an identical young boy is living a similar life. Does every country get a Harry or only members of NATO? How egalitarian-therefore impossible. Okay, focus, Hols. The trunk is close to the door, recently stowed. Does that mean some version of Harry is up there? One way to find out...
Holly packed everything back into the luggage and closed things up to appear undisturbed. Her trek to the second floor included skipping past the squeaky bottom step and taking a brief glance into the Dursley's bedrooms, where her presence continued to be undetected by the snoring occupants.
She took note of the catflap at the bottom of Harry's door, as well as the multiple bolts and latches.
At least they're not locked. Perhaps Harry has been behaving of late.
Holly stole into the room, closed the door and turned around. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt tears sting her cheeks.
On the other side of Harry's bed, a beautiful white owl stood in the frame of the window, staring back at her.
Oh, God help me, the last time I saw you alive was right before you were shot to pieces.
Holly nearly leapt across the room but she restrained herself and approached the wary bird with tender surety. Extending a hand forward, she earned an evaluative nip from the bird's beak, followed by a side shuffle towards her and a nudge of the owl's forehead.
Taking a moment to calm her crying, she searched through her borrowed robe, mumbling, "Fifty pockets in these damned things and you know I won't find an owl treat until the forty-ninth- A-ha!"
Offering the square biscuit to the owl, Holly was pleased to be allowed to feed and then pet the familiar bird. "Are you called Hedwig?" she whispered.
The owl coughed and chirped in a way that Holly translated as, 'Of course I am. Why aren't you scratching between my shoulders, silly witch?' A shift in Holly's ruffling and Hedwig gurgled with pleasure.
It took Holly almost an hour before she would let Hedwig be. She opened the window wide to let the owl hunt, watching her fly into the darkness. Only after drying more tears on the cuffs of the robe did she turn to give the sleeping Harry a closer look.
My alter ego... strangest thing is that for all that you look exactly as I did before the road trip, it's reversed. I always saw that face in a mirror.
His wand was cradled in his hand beneath the pillow, but it only took blowing on his eyelashes to get Harry to turn over, leaving the wand behind. Holly extracted it and took a grip. She calmed her mind and extended her senses toward the instrument.
Nothing. Not the warmth of recognition nor the buzz like a bad match might make. This wand can't hear me at all. 'Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice.'
She leaned over the young man, letting her fingers hover over the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. When she touched the scar, a flash of rage shot through her, familiar enough even though she hadn't felt that flavour of hatefulness for a while.
Not as strong, but just as dangerous. This is a problem. I only hope I didn't just send a telegram to Riddle that he has another nemesis to contend with. Then again, maybe he doesn't.
Noting the time on Harry's wind-up alarm clock as half three, Holly borrowed his glasses from the bedstand and then set to reading through the issues of Daily Prophet that he'd collected in the past few weeks.
The Tri-Wizard tournament was held, but only four competitors... Cedric died here as well, but so did Crouch-the-elder. I see Minister Fudge is denying anything untoward, while Albus puts the onus of truth onto Harry's statement of what happened in the graveyard. Oh my poor boy. I hope you weren't tortured the way I was. Let's see- thanks to Rita's brethren, Harry is their favorite running joke and Albus has once again successfully disarmed himself in the political arena. Prat.
Lily is just dead here instead of merged, so I guess this, essentially, is what would've happened if I'd walked into the protective sacrifice without trickery. Is this Your plan, O Lord; to show me the error of my ways, the consequences of my hubris? If so, why give me substance? Even Dickens knew how to conserve resources and still teach Scrooge the lesson.
Well, since You gave me this vehicle, I shall be taking it for a ride. Now, where to go with it?
I should help Harry just as a family thing- he's the only one here that I can say matters to me. His soul scar is the problem. Because it's there, Riddle is still around. Harry will need to be strong-willed to win against him- skills and tricks won't do it, and the Prophet's character assassination is treating him like a child, so he must not have a lot of influence. He isn't a leader. Yet.
I suppose the best way to help him is to guide him towards being awesome. You can't gift people with ego- it comes from living through experiences and learning the best lessons from them. It's a tough needle to thread, and how to do so depends on Harry and what he's endured so far.
As with anything, first we gather information and then we figure out what it means.
Holly continued to read until dawn approached. By then, Hedwig had returned from hunting to settle into her cage... and Harry started thrashing around in the grips of a nightmare.
Returning Harry's glasses to the bedside table, Holly then propped his alarm clock to balance on the headboard above him, leaning against the wall. She tip-toed over and perched on his desk. Within a minute, Harry's nightmare struggles dislodged the clock to drop onto his head with a painful 'clank'.
Showtime.
Holly Polter
Summary: Pre-5th year, Harry is visited by a woman claiming to be his magical Aunt Holly, except that she can't cast spells... or keep her hands off of him... or his friends. Holly/multi, Harry/multi. Not just naughty- it's knotty.
Explanation of intent: A while back I created a Girl!Harry story called Holly Evans and the Spiral Path. It started as an attempt to turn all sorts of fanfiction tropes on their heads, take a few stabs at canon, and maybe explore some sex stuff while not degenerating into 'fucking for the fuck of it' porn-erotica. Before I got too far into it, I decided to take it seriously, and really explore how a hero can be corrupted by their choices, particularly when Dark Magic (TM) is involved. Despite its many flaws, I think it turned out great, but many readers have said that they found the story to be a harsh and brutal thing- a difficult read. "Where's the fun in that?" they'd ask.
Rather than go off explaining the merits of tragedy and catharsis, I figure it's about time to let Holly romp around and fuck for the sake of fucking. After all, she is my Ms. Hyde, my Id monster, my Tyler Durden. And what better place for Holly to satisfy her (or my) cravings than the canon world of Harry Potter? There will be drama, comedy, mystery, adventure, a bit of horror and angst, but overall this is just a smutfic. One that I'll probably take too seriously. Enjoy.
What You Need to Know: If you've never heard of Holly Evans, here's the short version: In another world, Lily's protection went further, merging Lily with her son Harry to make Holly, except that she forgot everything Lily knew and had to grow up in Harry's place. This was her first step on the road to becoming a Dark Lady in her own right. The second step was shattering the Philosopher's Stone. The third probably was falling in love with a quite heterosexual Hermione Granger. Somewhere around step 37, Holly Marked Nymphadora Tonks as her vassal, using a Spiral Mark derived from Riddle's Dark Mark. Between Tonks' shapeshifting and Holly's need for frequent orgasms to keep Riddle's splinter of soul in her head at bay, Holly became quite adventurous, sexually speaking.
Prologue: 'Well, shit,'thought Holly, 'I've been decapitated. Didn't see that com--.'
Chapter: Arrival
Awareness gathers like mist collecting in a valley. A vague presence coalesces into an identity, which desires form. The thumping pulse of continuity's audience listens and responds, as it is compelled to when it hears so lucid a request. A template is found, relevant to the voice and gratifying to the audience in echoing the themes that it remembers hearing in another thread of time-place-texture. And God mused, 'This ought to be fun...'
Holly awoke in darkness to the chirping of crickets and the hum of air conditioner compressors. The night air was hot and dense with humidity. She felt groggy, a bit soggy and if she wasn't mistaken there were lawn clippings sticking to her bare skin. She sat up and took stock, flicking her fingers out to dislodge some of the grass from her limbs.
Somehow I expected my postmortem destination to be more painful. And drier.
The flicker of streetlamps threw shadows into the garden where she sat. Holly looked around for a landmark, a sign or some other indicator of her location. For her, there were too many; the rusted tools tucked into a bucket behind the rubbish bins, the polished garden bench, the double locks on the shed, the plots of flowers and ornamental grasses arranged just so... she knew this garden as if she had tilled and planted it herself.
I'm back at Privet Drive. Perhaps this is Hell, after all.
With nothing better to guide her, Holly chose to enter the house- if this was a nightmare scenario, there'd be no point in trying a different house to look for clothes and a towel. If it wasn't, this was the best place to begin finding where things stood, and perhaps arm herself as well. No sense being stupid about it- 'in trouble' was for her a chronic condition.
The lock on the mudroom door yielded to a small burst of mechanism magic from a touch of her hand. Her fingertips lit up in the invoking, also sparking her curiosity. They looked and felt wrong, but she couldn't quite recall what the difference should be.
She stepped into the kitchen and turned on the light. Inspecting her body in the fluorescence, she also noted a lack of any scars or trophies on her flesh, and that she was seeing this with both eyes, equally myopic. Feeling around her face, she found the faint impression of the scar on her forehead, otherwise healed. Her hair had grown out past her shoulders. Pulling some into view, she saw that it was straight and raven black which felt normal, though she was also expecting it to be a dark red. She shook out the damp strands, combing away some blades of grass and then taking a few minutes to braid it out of her way. Out of an old habit, she collected every flake of grass that had fallen onto the linoleum and binned them.
With care to be quiet, she riffled through the kitchen drawers, retrieving an elastic to tie up her braid and a towel to dry off and wipe her body clean. She also selected a stiff paring knife to keep handy and then made her way forward into the hall.
The cupboard under the stairs was sealed with a padlock. Again, she encouraged the lock to remember being unhinged (perhaps a bit as she felt) and then pulled the door open. Stowed amidst the hoover and cleaning supplies was a Hogwart's-style trunk with the initials HJP above the latch, lettered in gold paint. This opened with just a twist of the paring knife and she peered inside, her hands trembling more than she expected as she lifted the lid.
She pulled out and donned a work robe, then rooted through the other trunk contents. The thing was a mess with broken quills, uncorked empty inkwells and various loose pages of homework mixed amongst the more pertinent materials-standard textbooks through year 4, a potions kit, size 2 cauldron and such. A glance at a page of homework showed the author as Harry Potter.
How does that work? If I'm dead, why would Harry be here separate from me? If I'm not dead... where the hell am I and why am I here? It all feels too real, like I'm visiting Denmark where an identical young boy is living a similar life. Does every country get a Harry or only members of NATO? How egalitarian-therefore impossible. Okay, focus, Hols. The trunk is close to the door, recently stowed. Does that mean some version of Harry is up there? One way to find out...
Holly packed everything back into the luggage and closed things up to appear undisturbed. Her trek to the second floor included skipping past the squeaky bottom step and taking a brief glance into the Dursley's bedrooms, where her presence continued to be undetected by the snoring occupants.
She took note of the catflap at the bottom of Harry's door, as well as the multiple bolts and latches.
At least they're not locked. Perhaps Harry has been behaving of late.
Holly stole into the room, closed the door and turned around. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt tears sting her cheeks.
On the other side of Harry's bed, a beautiful white owl stood in the frame of the window, staring back at her.
Oh, God help me, the last time I saw you alive was right before you were shot to pieces.
Holly nearly leapt across the room but she restrained herself and approached the wary bird with tender surety. Extending a hand forward, she earned an evaluative nip from the bird's beak, followed by a side shuffle towards her and a nudge of the owl's forehead.
Taking a moment to calm her crying, she searched through her borrowed robe, mumbling, "Fifty pockets in these damned things and you know I won't find an owl treat until the forty-ninth- A-ha!"
Offering the square biscuit to the owl, Holly was pleased to be allowed to feed and then pet the familiar bird. "Are you called Hedwig?" she whispered.
The owl coughed and chirped in a way that Holly translated as, 'Of course I am. Why aren't you scratching between my shoulders, silly witch?' A shift in Holly's ruffling and Hedwig gurgled with pleasure.
It took Holly almost an hour before she would let Hedwig be. She opened the window wide to let the owl hunt, watching her fly into the darkness. Only after drying more tears on the cuffs of the robe did she turn to give the sleeping Harry a closer look.
My alter ego... strangest thing is that for all that you look exactly as I did before the road trip, it's reversed. I always saw that face in a mirror.
His wand was cradled in his hand beneath the pillow, but it only took blowing on his eyelashes to get Harry to turn over, leaving the wand behind. Holly extracted it and took a grip. She calmed her mind and extended her senses toward the instrument.
Nothing. Not the warmth of recognition nor the buzz like a bad match might make. This wand can't hear me at all. 'Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice.'
She leaned over the young man, letting her fingers hover over the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. When she touched the scar, a flash of rage shot through her, familiar enough even though she hadn't felt that flavour of hatefulness for a while.
Not as strong, but just as dangerous. This is a problem. I only hope I didn't just send a telegram to Riddle that he has another nemesis to contend with. Then again, maybe he doesn't.
Noting the time on Harry's wind-up alarm clock as half three, Holly borrowed his glasses from the bedstand and then set to reading through the issues of Daily Prophet that he'd collected in the past few weeks.
The Tri-Wizard tournament was held, but only four competitors... Cedric died here as well, but so did Crouch-the-elder. I see Minister Fudge is denying anything untoward, while Albus puts the onus of truth onto Harry's statement of what happened in the graveyard. Oh my poor boy. I hope you weren't tortured the way I was. Let's see- thanks to Rita's brethren, Harry is their favorite running joke and Albus has once again successfully disarmed himself in the political arena. Prat.
Lily is just dead here instead of merged, so I guess this, essentially, is what would've happened if I'd walked into the protective sacrifice without trickery. Is this Your plan, O Lord; to show me the error of my ways, the consequences of my hubris? If so, why give me substance? Even Dickens knew how to conserve resources and still teach Scrooge the lesson.
Well, since You gave me this vehicle, I shall be taking it for a ride. Now, where to go with it?
I should help Harry just as a family thing- he's the only one here that I can say matters to me. His soul scar is the problem. Because it's there, Riddle is still around. Harry will need to be strong-willed to win against him- skills and tricks won't do it, and the Prophet's character assassination is treating him like a child, so he must not have a lot of influence. He isn't a leader. Yet.
I suppose the best way to help him is to guide him towards being awesome. You can't gift people with ego- it comes from living through experiences and learning the best lessons from them. It's a tough needle to thread, and how to do so depends on Harry and what he's endured so far.
As with anything, first we gather information and then we figure out what it means.
Holly continued to read until dawn approached. By then, Hedwig had returned from hunting to settle into her cage... and Harry started thrashing around in the grips of a nightmare.
Returning Harry's glasses to the bedside table, Holly then propped his alarm clock to balance on the headboard above him, leaning against the wall. She tip-toed over and perched on his desk. Within a minute, Harry's nightmare struggles dislodged the clock to drop onto his head with a painful 'clank'.
Showtime.
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